


Easy

by Berty



Category: due South
Genre: First Date, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-05
Updated: 2006-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's been invited on a date. Well, he thinks he has...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy

Ray Kowalski turns up early on the consulate doorstep - which is a miracle in itself. The last time Ray had been early for something had been in 1996 when Stella had called and asked him to come to the apartment. It hadn't been for the reason he'd hoped; the neatly laid out divorce papers - with thoughtfully provided pen - had put any more stupid ideas of reconciliation out of his head. For a few days.

So Ray had learned the hard way not to hurry into unexpected invitations, but when Fraser had specifically, and rather stiffly, asked him to dine with him on Friday night instead of just letting it happen the way they normally did, Ray had been curious... intrigued... okay, obsessed by what the RCMP's finest had in mind.

Fraser had been very cagey about this evening since the invitation on Wednesday, which had just made Ray worse. The Mountie hadn't wanted to discuss the whys, the wherefores or the whatthefucks of the occasion, and Ray had begun to think that maybe there was something hinkey going on.

He'd checked with Turnbull on the date of Fraser's birthday, which, apparently, had been a closely guarded secret and a matter of massive national importance. (Turnbull had caved when Ray had told him that it was for a surprise that he wanted to give Fraser). He'd checked his desk diary that it wasn't the Queen's birthday (although he still wondered for what fucking reason this pointless information was printed in his (unused) diary. Midori no Hi - Japan, April 29th. Anniversary of the Amir's Succession - Qatar, June 27th. Estonian Independence Day, Feburary 24th. And where the _fuck_ was Estonia anyway?)

In desperation Ray had even called the Ice Queen herself and asked if Fraser had recently received a promotion or a commendation of some kind. She hadn't quite said, "on the day that hell freezes over, Detective," but she hadn't had to.

So here he is, outside the consulate, ten minutes early and still no idea why. He's pretty much stumped on this one. Not a clue. Nada. Of course, he knows what he'd _like_ Fraser to want, but the chances of that are really, really small.

Like none.

Or even less.

Ray has theories. He has ideas. He has hunches. He has a freaky feeling going on in his stomach and he doesn't know if he's gonna puke or giggle.

Dressing for something like this is not easy. He's no style pig, but he used to make an effort when he took Stella out. So is this a 'you're my best friend - I want you to know that' kind of dinner? (Clean jeans, Bulls shirt). Or is it a 'we're always at your place - it's time I reciprocated' kind of dinner? (Work jeans, Bulls shirt). Of course, if it's an, 'It's been fun, but the caribou are calling my name' kinda dinner then Ray should definitely be wearing his biker boots because it's head kicking time.

Fraser comes to the door in jeans and a Henley, so Ray feels like his choice (clean jeans and a turtleneck shirt) is in keeping. Frase seems on edge, tugging on his ear, licking his lips and, Ray's personal favourite, the eyebrow stroke. And that's all in the first ten seconds. It's distracting. The chances of this being just a nice gesture evaporate into the night air, leaving Ray even more rattled.

This is dinner with intent.

"Hey, Frase," he says, forcing some cheerful into his voice.

"Good evening, Ray."

Ray stands waiting there while Fraser stares at him with something like panic in his eyes. The words 'deer' and 'headlights' float to the top of Ray's consciousness along with 'transfer' and 'goodbye'.

And he waits.

And waits.

"So, I was early, but I've been out here that long, that I guess I'm on time now," he grins, a little savagely. Ray watches Fraser blush, bluster and step back to invite him in. And yes, Ray feels a bit guilty to have embarrassed him like that, even if the Mountie has just called him here to tell him he's leaving.

Fraser takes Ray's coat and he greets the wolf like normal, but there is an atmosphere in here, a kind of anticipation that isn't entirely comfortable.

Ray's attention, however, is soon distracted by the way Fraser is positively humming beside him. He's like his own little microclimate right there, charged and high-pressured. And another thing is the hair. It's... relaxed. Fraser's hair is never relaxed. It's always shiny and neatly combed and bomb-proof. So what's with the tousled waves and the spikes that curl down onto his forehead? What is that?

Fraser steps in closer to shut the front door and Ray gets a whiff of Mountie - and that's all wrong too. Mounties smell like leather oil and wool and Ivory soap, not... cologne?

Fraser's got a woman.

That's what this is.

Ray wants to smack himself in the head for being so dumb. Fraser has a woman, and he wants Ray to meet her. Of course! That's why the special invitation. That's why the not wanting to talk about it and the blushing and the caginess. Ray's gonna go into the kitchen, and meet the woman of Fraser's dreams - special enough that he wants Ray to like her and has engineered this dinner to accomplish that.

This is worse, shit... fuck... **so** much worse than Ray has been expecting. Worse even than Fraser moving back to Artic-ville, cause that would be kind of open-ended and heartbreaking in that good, achey way where it could still all come right one day. This...? This is badness, very much badness. This is forever - Fraser never does the woman thing, so if he has, it must mean some pretty serious shit is about to fall into Ray's life.

Ray feels sick.

Fraser's saying something about something but it's just noise to him.

Ray bets she's blonde like that Denny fucking Scarpa. Or outdoorsy and hale like the Morse woman. Or no, wait... maybe it's Thatcher and that's why they're here instead of out in a restaurant like normal people. And she's gonna call him Detective Vecchio like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth all evening. Oh, God, he's definitely gonna puke. Or... no... maybe it's...

Fraser opens the door to the kitchen for Ray to enter, and... there's no one there. Just a table set in the middle of the consulate's professional-looking kitchen. And something bubbling gently and smelling amazing on the burner.

Fraser waits for Ray to precede him, which he does, threat-assessing the stainless steel counters and the cupboards like a whack-job. His eyes flick to everywhere Fraser might have the future Mrs. Mountie stashed. He stops himself from bending down and checking under the table... but only just.

Relief makes him feel light-headed and he lets his mouth run before properly re-engaging his brain. Casting an eye over the tablecloth, the folded napkins, the unlit candle and the dinner settings for (thankfully) two, he grins. "Wow, Fraser! Look at this. Are we on a date or something?"

Fuck.

And **fuck**.

Fraser, impossibly, goes even stiffer than his normal ramrod straight. That panic in his eyes from earlier is cranked up a notch or two, and for a second he's speechless.

Ray just watches him flounder, frozen. Can't speak. Can't move. It's like a bad dream. He cannot believe he's just said something so fucking stupid. They are in the throes of the awkward silence to end all awkward silences and he's given himself away, he's certain of it. He wants to reach out and calm Frase, who looks like he's about to bolt. He wants to say something to defuse this nightmare of his own making. But he's got nothing.

 _Nothing._

"Well, Ray," Fraser croaks finally, "...that would just be silly, wouldn't it?" And now instead of panic, Fraser just looks defeated, disappointed in Ray and that's just about the worst feeling Ray's had in months. Fraser drops his eyes from Ray's face, desperately looking anywhere but at him, until he spots the range and the simmering pots. "I'll just..." He gestures toward the dinner and he's gone.

Ray immediately excuses himself to go to the tiny, old-fashioned bathroom that Fraser has to use. In the light of the single bulb, the Kowalski in the mirror is a stranger - wide-eyed, pale and strained. Ray bends and splashes his face with water, trying to wash that other Ray off. He can't believe he almost lost his lunch back there just thinking about Fraser leaving him or being with someone else. He never realised he'd gotten it so bad for the guy.

He knew the Mountie gave him an ache in his groin when he smiled. He knew that he counted the number of times Fraser touched him during the course of a day, and how good a day he'd had was directly related to that number. He knew that when Fraser looked at him sometimes he found it kind of hard to breathe, and this wanting to throw up was definitely new. And none of that was the same as being in _love_ , surely? Wasn't that just Ray not getting any in like... forever, and Fraser being kinda easy on the eye no matter what you kept in your underwear?

'Liar' says the man in the mirror. 'Closet-case'. 'Loser'.

Ray grips the chipped but spotless basin and wonders if he'll feel better if he hits his head against it a few times. It might be good - cold and hard. It would definitely give him something else to think about instead of how horrified Fraser had looked when Ray had asked him that dumbfuck question. "Are we on a date or what?" Oh, God. He sucks.

Ray looks back up into his reflection and presses a palm against his lips, a reminder not to let his mouth get away from him. Yeah, that would have been better advice about three minutes ago, buddy.

Taking a deep breath, Ray shakes out his shoulders, neck and arms, working out the freakiness and the heebie-jeebies. Suck it up, Kowalski. Stop behaving like a fucking headcase and get your game back on, he tells himself. He faces the mirror one more time, checks his hair and gives himself a grin. King of Cool. He's good. He's great. Dinner - he can do dinner.

And without fucking up or coming out.

He opens the door and switches off the light.

'Coward' says the final glimpse of his reflection. Ray ignores it.

Fraser, it seems, has also spent the time regaining his balance, and he greets Ray with a warm, almost genuine smile when he returns.

"Hey, buddy, something smells really good. Whatcha got there?"

Fraser moves aside to let Ray peek into the pot and sniff appreciatively. And that's cool. That's what normal people do. Normal people do not squeeze together when there's lots and lots of empty space in the big-ass kitchen, 'cause that's just gay... weird. He meant weird.

Ray feels the small distance between them like a knife to the gut. It's mere inches of unfilled space, but it shouldn't be there. It echoes. It mocks him.

They've never had personal space issues before, Frase and him. They've always been very hands on. But with one stupid joke, Ray seems to have drawn attention to this and Fraser is now making sure that personal boundaries are respected, if not positively well guarded.

Ray hates himself just a tiny bit more than he thought he did.

This is not going to happen, Ray tells himself angrily. He's not going to be the one who has broken this... whatever it is they have. He needs it. He _needs_ it. He sometimes thinks that his relationship with Fraser is all he really has, other than the job, but he tries not to, 'cause, really? That's just too fucking depressing. And he knows that Fraser's lonely, he admitted that after only about a week of them working together. In a crypt. In the first real bit of himself that he let Ray see. So Ray's not going to screw this up for Fraser's sake too.

He grins like he means it. "You make this yourself? I don't see any opened cans around here, Fraser." See? He can do normal.

"Well, Ray, it really isn't that taxing to make this from scratch. All you need is butter, cream, garlic..."

"Good one, Fraser. I don't do the cooking thing. The most ambitious I get is putting a sliced tomato on my grilled cheese."

Fraser chuckles and it sounds natural. Ray hazards a glance at his partner and... yeah... he's loosening up slowly.

"A voluntary vegetable, Ray? That's commendable. Strictly speaking, of course, tomatoes are a fruit, but the intention to eat healthily is obviously there."

"Fraser, you are about to feed me an instant coronary with spaghetti - do not lecture me on the perils of eating stuff that actually tastes nice," Ray retorts. And this is more like it. A bit of banter. A little teasing and a little back-chat.

"Well, this isn't what I would normally eat, Ray. This is obviously something that I have made because I was expecting... company." Fraser fumbles over the last word and Ray wonders what he was going to say.

"And here was I thinking you were gonna be feeding me pemmican and moss."

"No, Ray."

"But you _were_ tempted."

"Yes, Ray." A quick smile. A real smile. Fraser leans across him to adjust one of the burners, his arm brushing past his chest. And Ray heaves a silent sigh of relief. It's okay. They're gonna be okay.

And they are. Okay. All through the pasta and the fruit salad that Fraser insists counts as desert, even though Ray says otherwise, it's as good as ever. (Ray adds extra sugar and more cream than he actually wants just to get his point across.)

They chat about cases and old stories. They chat about friends and sports. It's easy. It's nice. And while Fraser is busy boiling water for tea, Ray leans back in his chair, admires the view and wonders what all the fuss was about. There's no Mrs. Fraser-to-be. Just him and Frase - it'll take more than Kowalski's famed ability to say stupid things at the most inappropriate moments to ruin this, he thinks.

Fraser sits down again, placing a steaming mug in front of each of them.

Ray smiles. "So, Frase? Why are you still here?"

The infinitesimal pause of Fraser's hand in the act of curling around his mug lets Ray know that he's done it again, something stupid, but he doesn't know what. Sure it's a personal question, and Fraser's always a little evasive about those, but they are at that point in the evening, you know? The point where conversation starts to turn inward and become more about them and their lives than work.

Fraser answers while Ray is still struggling to work out what he's said wrong. He clears his throat - a favourite delaying tactic of his. "Here as in...?"

"The consulate. You know, living in your office. How come?" What else could he have meant? The dinner table? Chicago? Earth?

"Ah." Fraser sounds relieved. Now Ray's totally confused. "Well, Ray, it's a place to sleep and the commute isn't too bad."

Mountie humour.

Who knew?

"It's just, it's been over a year, Frase." Ray sucks up his courage. "You not expecting to be here long enough to bother with a place, or what?"

Fraser looks down at his mug and props his forehead against his hand.

Here it comes, thinks Ray. He knew there was something. He fucking knew it! Fraser's sick. He only has a month to live. He's being posted to Bejing on account of his crispy aromatic duck ordering skills. He's inherited a billion dollars of the funny coloured money he carries, and he's off to start a Canada-wide litter eradication campaign. He's been fired. It _is_ that he's sick. Oh God. But he looks okay.

"My needs are very few, Ray," Fraser says, derailing Ray's downward spiral into a full on panic-attack. "I don't have a lot of possessions that require storage and I don't entertain often, well, ever actually before now."

"So you're not... like... going anywhere?"

"Not in the foreseeable future, no." Fraser smiles up from under the eyebrow rub, watching Ray intently. For what? For some kind of reaction? For relief?

This is doing Ray's head in, and that's not buddies. He can't stand not knowing, it's driving him demented. So it's cards on the table time. "So what's with dinner, Frase? Not that it wasn't great and all, but...you know... why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"No." Ray points two fingers at the Mountie and pins him with a glare while he thinks. "Yes."

Fraser looks tense again, cross even, as he lifts his head to stare at Ray. "Well I apologise if I have overstepped some unspoken, stereotypical, social boundary..." Boy, can Fraser cram a ton of pissiness into a polite phrase.

"So you're not leaving? Transferred or fired or quitting or nothing?"

Fraser is momentarily taken aback before he shakes his head. He frowns, "No."

"And you're not marrying Thatcher or some healthy girl with her own plaid shirt?"

"Are you unhinged?"

"Just answer the question!"

"No, Ray, I'm not getting married. Or baptised. Or ordained, cremated, canonised or confirmed." Fraser's cheeks are getting pink, and pissy was left standing a long way back.

"That's good," Ray snaps, ignoring Fraser's sarcasm. "Are you sick?"

"Other than feelings of disorientation and confusion right now, I'm in perfect health, thank you."

"It's not your birthday, you haven't been promoted, so..."

Fraser's eyes narrow. "If I'd known that it was going to upset you so much, I'd have saved us both the effort and..."

"So, this _is_ a date," Ray concludes, completely ignoring Fraser. And as he says it, all the pieces slide into place in his head. The special invitation. The wary behaviour. The cologne. The hair. The staring. The reaction to his earlier outburst, and his surge of excitement is tempered by an irrational annoyance that Fraser has had him so on edge. God, he's so dumb. "Right?" Ray challenges.

Fraser looks like he wishes he were anywhere but here. His eyes are cast down, his cheeks are dark, and he's twisting his napkin round and round in his fingers. "Well, that just makes no sense, does it, Ray?" he mutters.

"Say it isn't, then."

"If it were a date there'd be candlelight and..." Fraser scoffs, meeting Ray's challenge with a glare of his own.

Ray stands up, grabs the candlestick from the table and walks over the range where he lights it from the pilot. He places it firmly back on the table, clicks off the overhead lights and sits down again. He'll be damned if he's gonna let the Mountie weasel out of this with cryptic remarks and misdirection.

"Say it's not a date, Fraser," Ray growls.

In the sudden darkness, he's never been more sure of a thing in his life. Fraser invited him here with his mind on... what? Romance? Sex? And if Ray's got to face up to that, and all that it means, then so has Fraser.

But Fraser's not giving up without a fight obviously. He looks exasperated, but Ray's not buying it. "Just because someone cooks a meal for a friend and makes a little effort, it doesn't mean..."

"Yes! It does! That's exactly what it means."

"Don't be ridiculous, Ray. A date involves dancing or..."

"You wanna dance?" Ray bounces out of his seat again, his chair scraping painfully on the hard floor. He offers Fraser his shaking hand, and Fraser's eyes go wide as he looks up at him, but he makes no move to take it.

"There's no music..."

"I'll hum," Ray counters. "Is this a date yet?"

"Ray, you're being deliberately obtuse. If this were a date it would imply that we were complicit in our intentions, and that we were regarding each other as... potential..."

Say it, Ray thinks. Say it!

"Lovers, Fraser. Isn't that the word you're looking for?" And he sounds totally cool with that, even though his heart is rattling out a rumba rhythm.

Fraser nods mutely.

"Good. That's what I thought. So this is, isn't it? A date, I mean."

Ray's hand is still hanging in mid-air and his words too. It looks like he has finally found a way to silence Benton Fraser that doesn't involve his fist. In the pathetic glow of the single candle, Fraser's face is half in shadow. But the half Ray can see looks cautious but hopeful. The yellow reflection of the flame gleams dully at them from the hanging pots and ladles, from the faucet and from the window glass, but everything else is in darkness.

Seconds drag by, each one a lifetime, and Fraser's regard becomes speculative. But Ray's not gonna be faked out. He can wait all night if necessary. No dry mouth or shaking hand or certainty that he's about to up-chuck is going to make him back down before the Mountie does.

With overdone precision, Fraser puts his napkin down on the table and stands up. Ray should step back to give him some space, but he doesn't. Fraser looks from Ray's eyes, to his outstretched hand and back again, then very deliberately takes it.

Fraser's hand is a little damp and a little unsteady, and Ray feels perversely pleased by this. He leads Fraser a pace or two away from the table and twists toward him.

Fraser is right there, so close behind Ray when he turns that their chests are almost touching. Ray can't help but breathe in the scent of him and he can smell _his_ Fraser now, underneath the cologne, and despite having already eaten his fill, Ray's mouth starts to water.

He doesn't know who's gonna lead, but someone has to make the decision, so Ray clasps Fraser's waist and pulls him in, turning his other hand so it covers Fraser's. He's half expecting a fight, but Fraser is strangely pliant in his arms.

Ray takes a moment to savour. This is the first time he's ever held another man like this, and he thinks he's owed a little adjustment period. There were a few guys before he and Stella got serious, but nothing that meant anything. Just experimenting and having a laugh. Just a phase. Or apparently not.

Ray is unprepared for the rush of having someone so solid and so _there_. They are as close in height as makes no odds. Fraser's cloudy, blue eyes never leave Ray's face and even in this crappy light, Ray can see the flecks of grey in them, he's that near. Fraser's body lines up with his perfectly, hip to hip, chest to chest. The strength of him is transmitted everywhere they touch, and Ray is so turned on, he's having to stand kinda weird.

Ray tenses, preparing to move them in a simple waltz step and counts himself in. One, two, three. Two, two, three, and...

Fraser leans in and touches their mouths together.

And Ray forgets everything he ever knew about dancing. It's so soft, the kiss, so unexpectedly gentle. For some reason, in Ray's head, he was anticipating a demanding first kiss, full of possessiveness and dominance. But this is nothing like that. He lets his lips part slightly and Fraser tenderly, almost hesitantly licks into Ray's mouth.

Fuck dancing; this is a million times better. Ray drops Fraser's hand and reaches up to hold his head to prevent him from moving away. Fraser's arms come around him, anchoring him, and it's the strangest thing to Ray that it's not strange at all. It's good. It's _really_ good.

They break apart finally and just stare at each other. It's like a second's hesitation before making one final leap. Fraser still holds Ray, and Ray's not letting go of Fraser without a much better reason than the ones currently on offer. 'Cause they're in a darkened kitchen in the Canadian consulate? 'Cause this is his partner and best friend? 'Cause he's not gay? Ha! Gotta try harder than that. Jeez, if he'd known it was gonna be as simple as this, he'd have done it weeks ago and saved himself a smack in the jaw and a bruised fist.

"Can I walk you home?" Ray stutters. An ironic little smile spreads across his lips when Fraser looks like he's about to say something practical.

"Dating etiquette does allow for that, yes," Fraser replies slowly and with an answering spark in his eye.

Putting out the candle, while still staying firmly attached each to the other proves tricky but achievable. Ray complicates the process by taking advantage of Fraser's proximity at every opportunity with his hands and his mouth.

"It _was_ a date, wasn't it?" Ray murmurs against Fraser's lips as they negotiate the six metres to Fraser's office door. Fraser just grunts, and Ray decides to take that as a yes. "So... can I come in for a coffee?"

"Is that normal behaviour for a first date? I wouldn't want to appear... easy."

Ray takes a step back in shock with all kinds of 'Taking it slow' and 'Just for five minutes' on his lips before he remembers that Fraser is the king of the deadpan delivery. It makes being a sarcastic bastard so much more classy in Ray's view. "You think this was easy?" Ray demands. "And it would have been a whole lot easier if you'd _told_ me it was a date, Fraser."

"I still haven't said it was, Ray," Fraser says with a lopsided smile and walks into his office.

Ray leans nonchalantly in Fraser's doorway. "Hard to get, huh? Well was it, or wasn't it? I mean I wouldn't want to jump to conclusions or anything."

"Ah, but I've always admired your ability to use your intuition, Detective. What does your ...ah... gut tell you?"

"Ah, well that doesn't apply to you, because you're Mr. Logic. I'd never forgive myself if..."

"Ray!"

"Okay! Okay. It was a date." Ray grins and crosses his arms. "Next time it would be nice to be asked, you know, upfront."

Fraser meets Ray in the doorway, takes a handful of Ray's sweater and drags him bodily into his room. "Well, next time you could try bringing me flowers," he growls, and bangs the door shut behind them.

Fin


End file.
